


Ineffable Inktober Ficlets

by doomed_spectacles



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Banter, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Fictober 2019, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Inktober, Light Angst, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-11-22 06:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: A series of ~500 word ficlets for the Inktober list foundhere. Rating will likely stay G/T and tone will vary.





	1. Ring

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Ring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/49606634)  
2\. [Mindless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/49615568)  
3\. [Bait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/49803842)  
4\. [Freeze](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/49803962)  
5\. [Build](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50110487)  
6\. [Husky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50110880)  
7\. [Enchanted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50112506)  
8\. Frail  
9\. [Swing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50277158)  
10\. [Pattern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50164940)  
11\. Snow  
12\. Dragon  
13\. Ash  
14\. Overgrown  
15\. Legend  
16\. Wild  
17\. [Ornament](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50165333)  
18\. Misfit  
19\. Sling  
20\. Tread  
21\. [Treasure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50469821)  
22\. Ghost  
23\. Ancient  
24\. Dizzy  
25\. Tasty  
26\. [Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50513051) (Rated M)  
27\. [Coat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20869613/chapters/50554673)
> 
> I'm posting as I finish/write these, which is to say, not in order. I have tried and failed to write these in the proper order on the proper day but the fact that I'm writing them at all is what counts ... right? Right.

Crowley lifted his sunglasses to his forehead and squinted at the menu. It looked like an invisible plunger was attached to his face, pulling his skin forward as he struggled in the dim light to read the Italian words handwritten on a piece of paper. Aziraphale smirked, but fondly. 

"You could remove your glasses, dear," he said. "I'm sure the humans wouldn't give your eyes a second thought. They have contact lenses in all sorts of configurations these days." 

"Bah, not worth it. Even if they think it's lenses, it becomes a whole thing." Crowley gestured vaguely with the hand not holding the menu approximately two inches from his face.

"Suit yourself." As if remembering appearances for the first time that evening, he manifested his own reading glasses and set them primly in place. After pointedly reading through them for a few moments, he put down his menu, satisfied.

Crowley made a noise that was meant to communicate that he was annoyed at this statement, but so accustomed to sentiments like it coming from Aziraphale that he couldn't be bothered to reply.

They ordered another bottle of wine, an appetizer, several courses, and dessert. Aziraphale beamed at the waiter, who hadn't written a single item down, and said, "I know that's a lot to remember, but my companion and I have been here _many times_ and we do so enjoy both the food and the _consistently excellent service_." The waiter gave a thin smile and hurried away, scribbling their order on a pad as soon as he was out of sight.

"I like my glasses," Crowley said abruptly.

"Mmm?"

"I like them. 'Sides, been wearing them so long it feels kindof naked without." Crowley stroked his chin, thoughtfully. His dinner companion's eyebrows rose and he waggled his own in response. "Not that I mind being naked, mind you." He followed that with a toothy grin and a long sip from his glass.

"Nakedness notwithstanding," Aziraphale said, clearing his throat, "I know what you mean."

Crowley scoffed. "You have worn so many layers for so many centuries, there's no _way_ you know that feeling."

"I do!" Aziraphale answered, indignant. "It just so happens I do." He twisted his fingers around the ring he'd always worn on the smallest finger of his right hand.

Crowley considered him. "You have always worn that, haven't you?" His voice had lowered the way it always did when they talked about the distant past. The way they talked about the past so far back neither of them frequently wanted to recall it.

"It didn't have any particular meaning to start with," Aziraphale said. "But it ... gained meaning over the years, I suppose. By always being there." He looked down at his hands, then at Crowley. His face was soft and open, his eyes bright.

Crowley reached out, as if to hold his hand, or look closer at the ring. But at that moment the waiter arrived to refill their wine. Aziraphale's face closed. He glanced at the waiter politely and returned his hands to his lap. 

Crowley drained his glass.


	2. Mindless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley brings Alexa into the bookshop. Things go about as well as you'd expect.

"Okay Crowley, I'll bite. What is it? It just looks like a little round black blob."

"Listen to this, angel. Alexa, what's the square root of 4004?"

_[The square root of 4004 is 63.277]_

"Very impressive. Why are you showing me this?"

"Because! It's genius! I didn't have anything to do with it and yet it's the most demonic thing I've seen in ages. Alexa, what's the weather today?"

_[Today, in London, it's 12 degrees and cloudy. Have a nice day.]_

"How is it demonic? She seems quite nice."

"She's not a she. Alexa, did Christopher Marlowe actually write Shakespeare's plays for him?"

_[It has been theorized by some scholars that Shakespeare did not author all of his works and that other prominent authors at the time were responsible instead. Did that answer your question?]_

"Crowley, that's simply not correct! You know it's not! I dare say, that terrible rumor has simply gotten out of hand and I cannot believe it's lasted this long. Make her take it back!"

"I can't make her do anything, angel. And besides, she's not a she. She's a mindless machine. An automaton. She's a collection of algorithms in a shiny box created by some geek bros in hoodies lounging around a boardroom in America with too much money and not enough common sense. I told you, right up my alley. Alexa, when did tartan go out of style?"

[T_artan is a pattern consisting of horizontal and vertical bands of varying colored fabrics, and is particularly associated with Scotland, though worn around the world. Tartan reached its peak popularity in the Victorian and Edwardian eras.]_

"Hmph. Well I can see why you'd be impressed. A machine that talks is one thing but one that gives bad information is quite another."

"That's the not the only thing it can do! You'll like this. You can play any music you want. Alexa, play Brahms Symphony No 4."

...

"Crowley, that's not -"

"Shut up, I know. Alexa, shut up!"

_[I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Playing Brahms Symphony No. 4]_

_..._

_[This thing called love, I just can't handle it_

_This thing called love, I must get 'round to it, I ain't ready]_

"Stop laughing! It's not funny!"

_[Crazy little thing called love]_


	3. Bait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE:** I expanded on and edited this into its own fic and posted it separately [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504685). This version is a draft, of sorts. Feel free to read either, but the separate version is cleaner, I think.
> 
> I don't know where this came from or why I decided to torture Crowley. Oof. Fandom consensus seems to be that Crowley goes to New York after "you go too fast for me." So this is my version of sad Crowley's New York travels.

1968

It was said that a demon was living in the meatpacking district. This wasn't entirely true. A demon was hiding in the meatpacking district. He had a small place on the fourth floor of an ancient building that never had running hot water, ever. He hadn't been there long enough to find out if someone who couldn't miracle their own heat would be able to make it there. The floorboards creaked and the walls were paper thin. His room was bare, save for the bed he'd manifested, a dresser that wasn't nice enough to be called antique, and a mirror he'd made into a heavy ornate piece in a fit of vanity. He left each day around noon and returned late at night, swaggering and full of desperation. His feet were never still. He tap danced around the streets like his feel would catch flame any minute. He stepped over the crumpled people laying on the street with care, snapping his fingers as he walked. Some of them found food that night. Some didn't.

Sophie watched him every day for a month before he let on that he'd spotted her. He grinned at her and it was the sort of toothy grin that made it look like the edges of his mouth were trying to get away from the rest of his face. He made a finger-bang gesture at her and kept walking. Her bowl found itself full of coins.

She waited for him on the steps of his building the next morning. He appeared, wearing a wine-red silk shirt tucked into very tight black pants. His sunglasses were tinted black, darker than fashionable. His shoes shone. "Again?" he said, "Why aren't you in school? Got kicked out for being terrible?"

"No!" He didn't wait for her to elaborate. He started walking at a brisk pace, hands shoved in his pockets. She struggled to keep up as she was carrying her backpack, bowl, and handmade sign that read "spare change for an orphan? anything will help!" She had drawn happy flowers and a yellow smiling face on it with discarded sidewalk chalk. "My sister is sick and she thinks I'm in school but we can't afford medicine so I need to get money."

"Well that sounds awful but it's not got anything to do with me." He looked back over his shoulder at her and scowled, but she wasn't afraid. He talked tough but walked like his feet were trying to do something entirely separate from the rest of him. He pointed at his chest. "Adult here, doing adult things. Scram."

They'd gone several blocks, Sophie trailing behind him, when she finally said, "You can do magic, though. I heard."

He stopped in his tracks. Then he took off running, taking a tricky corner to lose her. She followed as best she could but lost him as soon as his poof of red hair was out of sight.

The next day, she followed him discreetly. He walked for a very long time. Her legs ached and she longed to sit down. There was something about this strange man that she couldn't place. He was restless, but moved with purpose. He was all energy with nowhere to put it. He'd stopped for a hot dog, which gave her the chance to sit on a fountain nearby and scrounge for wet coins. When she looked up, she saw his red hair turning a corner and she hurried to catch up. She rounded the corner at full speed and ran smack into him.

"Oy!" He held one and a half hot dogs. The half-eaten one had smashed into his shirt, leaving a large mustard stain. He held the whole out to her and she took it. "You're a long way from home, girl-who-should-be-in-school," he said.

With half of the hot dog already smashed in her mouth, she said, "Name's Sophie, not girl." She wolfed down the last half of the hot dog and swallowed. "Thanks."

He eyed her. "Well then, Sophie-who-should-be-school," he said. "Time to stop following me and scram."

"But you can do magic and I need it," she said, matter of fact.

"You do, eh?" 

"Yeah. My sister - I told you. She's sick and needs medicine," she said, licking her fingers to taste the last bit of mustard clinging to them.

He shook his head. "It's not a good idea. Now go on."

When he didn't say no, something broke. Angry tears welled up in her eyes and she wiped at them furiously. She breathed in and out a few times, calming herself. "Fine. If you can't do magic, then fine. I'll take my business elsewhere," she said. She dared him to disagree with her eyes.

"Oh that's how we're playing it, eh?" he said, shrugging. "Fine." He looked her in the eyes behind his dark glasses and snapped his fingers right in front of her face. "You'd better not follow me. It's going to rain in 90 minutes and you do not want to be caught out here when it does." With that, he turned and sauntered off.

She stamped her foot as he left. She fumed. She walked in circles and muttered to herself. Finally she realized that after he'd snapped, the mustard stain on his shirt had disappeared. "Bastard," she whispered. The gathering clouds above her head indicated he'd been right about the storm, so she turned her feet towards home.

A week later, she found the red haired man standing in front of a bookshop. She spotted him from across the street and crossed to stand next to him. The bookshop he was gazing into was small and old and didn't look very nice. He stared at the window, lost and for once, still. His hands were shoved in his pockets and his face was stone. Somehow she knew he'd been standing there for a long time.

Sophie said, "I've been in here a few times but the owner chased me out. She said I was a miscreant."

After a long silence, he looked down at her. "That's because you are," he said, without any real heat in his voice.

"My sister says you're a demon."

"That's because I am," he said, tired. "Very smart, your sister. You should go back to her. Scram." He hissed on the last word.

"I don't think she's right."

"Yeah why not?" he asked, snotty.

"Because you're sad." She saw his face crumple like so much paper, discarded. His spine curved in on itself and he lost an inch of height.

He muttered to himself. "And whoever heard of a sad demon. Pathetic!" Then he reared his head back and yelled. "Okay, okay I get it! I'm taking the bait! Are you happy?" He flung his arms out and tipped his head back, shouting at the sky. "Are you even listening? I'm being humiliated by a child!" 

"I'm not a-" she started, but he wasn't listening. 

He keep ranting. "Go to America, you can be a proper demon in America. Can't go too fast in America, 's not possible to be too fast, it's bloody America! Sodding lot of good that did! Now I'm being manipulated by a girl with a sign and a cup." 

She looked up at him, placid.

He sighed. "Alright, fine. Where's your sister?"

Sophie led him through the crowded streets back to her neighborhood. It was old and wore its age with a sense of bitterness and stalwart resentment. People sat on stoops outside with nothing in their eyes. She unlocked the outside door carefully with a heavy key on a chain around her neck. They walked up the narrow stairs. Every step creaked as if the very building ached with age. Sophie unlocked their apartment door and ushered him inside. It was dark and small and it smelled of sickness. 

They entered the only bedroom and a thin voiced called out from the bed, "Sophie, is that you?"

Sophie took the man's hand. She realized she'd never asked his name. She led him inside and said softly, "Hazel, I've brought someone who can help."

When she saw the two of them in the doorway, Hazel's eyes widened in her slack, pale face. "You brought the demon? Oh Sophie, why?"

"He can do magic, he can help!"

"Sophie, go in the other room," she said. Sophie pouted but complied. When they were alone, Hazel asked, "Are you going to kill me? I'm ready, if so. But please don't hurt her."

"I'm not going to kill you. Even if you ask." He nodded towards the door where Sophie had just exited. "I won't do that, demon or no."

"You are a demon, then."

He inclined his head, just barely. She nodded. "My stupid sister, goes off to find someone to help me and what does she find? An actual demon. That's hilarious. Or something."

He smiled but it was nothing more than his thin lips in a slightly curved line. It held no mirth. "Or something. She had a sign made up. Anything will help. I doubt she had satanic intervention in mind."

She chuckled, then looked pained.

"What you have- I can't cure it. It doesn't get cured. It's too big a fix to explain."

"I know," Hazel said. "You don't cure cancer, not this kind. But who tells an eight year old that?"

"I can give you five years. Slow it down a bit."

"Why?"

"Don't. Just get her back in school and make a plan. For her. For when."

Hazel nodded.

The demon by her bedside snapped his fingers. She didn't feel any different but somehow she knew she'd live for five years and no more.

"You're not a demon."

He took off his sunglasses. "I am." He leaned closer. "I'm a demon who was conned by a little girl. I'm six thousand years old and sometimes I'm tired of this damned world even though it's all I've got."

He put his glasses back on. "Anthony J. Crowley. Demon. Sap. Utter fool. You won't remember it, though."

He turned to go, snapping his fingers as he closed the door.


	4. Freeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they parted, Aziraphale looked around, flustered. "Did you-"
> 
> "Freeze time, yeah."
> 
> Aziraphale blinked. "We're having sushi."

Aziraphale had just set down his chopsticks when the bustle of the restaurant stopped and everything stood still. The next thing he was aware of was that he was being kissed.

After a moment's hesitation, he relaxed and reciprocated. Against his mouth, Crowley made a desperate noise that he'd later deny. He brought his hand to Aziraphale's cheek in an achingly tender gesture he'd also later deny.

When they parted, Aziraphale looked around, flustered. "Did you-"

"Freeze time, yeah."

Aziraphale blinked. "We're having sushi."

"Yeah well, didn't really think about it. Just-" Crowley cleared his throat. His face was flushed and his glasses were askew on his face. "Just- you know, wanted to- been wanting to. And then, I dunno, looked so happy. Just-" He gestured widely at the servers and the chef behind the counter who stood perfectly still mid-chop. "Didn't want to cause a scene if you, dunno, punched me or something."

"Punched you? I wouldn't!"

"Well I know that _now_. Are you going to finish that?" 

Aziraphale stared at him, dumbfounded. His lips moved but no words appeared.

"I-"

Crowley said nothing. His jaw was clenched tight and he'd started nervously tapping his foot against the leg of his bar-stool. The woman seated beside him had stopped with a piece of salmon halfway to her mouth. It dangled precariously on her chopsticks.

Finally, Aziraphale shook his head. He eyed the sushi chef, whose mouth was frozen in a comically exaggerated frown of concentration and sushi-chef-level stoicism. He sighed. "Crowley, let them be," he said. "And then take me home."

Crowley mumbled something to himself and snapped his fingers, bringing the restaurant back to life as if nothing had happened. The server brought a box for the fish and rice that remained on the plates in front of them without being asked. Crowley held up his shiny black card and pointedly didn't look at the angel next to him. 

"Arigato gozaimasu," Aziraphale said to the chef, who beamed at his regular customer with pride, oblivious to the lost time and slight bend in physics that had just occurred. As Crowley slipped the exclusively high-end Brimstone member credit card back in its leather sleeve, Aziraphale covered his hand with his own.

He leaned over and hovered his lips just above Crowley's ear. He whispered, "Now then, take me home, please Crowley." He felt Crowley's shudder. "We'll have all the time we need." 


	5. Build

The South Downs cottage wasn't built in a day, though it could have been. Instead of blinking into existence, the cottage was built by craftsmen over a respectable amount of time, and stood a respectable 180 years before being inhabited by a demon and an angel. The cottage, affectionately called "Triple H" by its supernatural occupants, has a root cellar, foundation, brick walls, an attic and a thatched roof.Their life in the cottage took time to build. Most relationships don't take millennia, but Aziraphale and Crowley are not most people nor most supernatural beings.

_You gave it away?_  
The cellar holds roots. Origins. It also holds seeds, the future waiting to grow.

_We'll have an Arrangement._  
The foundation poured in concrete, strong enough to hold without cracking as the ground shifts beneath them.

_We'd be godfathers._  
Walls built brick by brick, day by day, mortared together. Holding them together and keeping their warmth inside. .

_Choose your faces wisely._  
The attic holds remnants. Items from the past that neither of them wants to reclaim but that won't disappear.

_To the world._  
The roof protects them from the elements but is open to them. It shows the cottage for what it is, with no pretensions or illusions. Under this roof, a home.


	6. Husky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (South Downs)
> 
> Heaven strips Aziraphale of his titles. He goes for a walk and finds something he didn't know he needed. Or rather, someone finds him.
> 
> "I didn't expect it to feel like this. To know they no longer claim me as their own," he said. "It hurts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE:** I expanded on this and posted it separately as its own fic, located [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21694747). This version is a draft, of sorts.

They had been in the cottage for almost two years when the note came. Aziraphale placed the pristine white envelope with gold foil trim on top of the rest of the post and deposited it on the counter. He stared for a long time at the ornate lettering.

"Are you going to open it?" Crowley asked, circling behind him.

Aziraphale sighed. "I suppose there's no use in dithering."

A letter opener appeared in his hand and he slid it under the fold carefully. Inside was a simple sheet of paper, lettered in plain type, memo-style. When he'd finished, he passed the paper to Crowley. 

"Oh," Crowley said.

"Indeed. I suppose it was bound to happen. Nothing to be done," he replied, his voice neutral.

"Angel-"

"It's okay, Crowley. I've been stripped of my titles, but they never meant a great deal to me anyhow." He huffed. He turned away, knowing his face would show Crowley absolutely everything.

"Angel-"

"I'm going to go for a walk," he said, practically running out the door. He didn't take his hat, coat or walking stick, which hung on a rack next to the door.

"Aziraphale! Angel!" Crowley called after him. 

"I have to go for a walk," he said, into the wind. Aziraphale turned and walked up the path toward the downs. Crowley watched his back receding into the landscape from the gate. He didn't turn back. Eventually Crowley went back inside and closed the door. He lit the lamp outside the front door, though it was barely turning twilight. 

When he returned, Aziraphale was followed by a large white dog. It had long fluffy fur that shone in the dusky evening and mismatched brown and blue eyes. Aziraphale opened the heavy wooden gate and the dog trotted up to the front door, then walked in and sniffed.

"This is Barnabus," he said, though Crowley hadn't asked. "Oh, also I'm back."

"I see that," Crowley said from his place at the couch. He set down his glass.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and two stainless steel bowls appeared next to the kitchen island. He thought for a moment, then a tartan-patterned mat appeared underneath them. Barnabus trotted over to the water bowl and slurped happily. Aziraphale poured himself a glass of wine from the open bottle on the counter and stood. He looked wild, as if he hadn't completely come back in from the cold. Crowley eyed him carefully over the back of the couch.

"I came across Barnabus on my route," he said. "I've walked that route through the downs every day for nearly two years. This time I saw a large white dog. It was as if he was waiting for me. He knew me. He told me his name."

Crowley stayed silent.

"We looked at each other for a long while. He wasn't afraid and neither was I. Then he simply walked home with me." Aziraphale finally looked at Crowley and the dog, who'd settled on the rug in front of the fire. He'd ignored the demon entirely.

"Angel, come sit down," Crowley said.

Aziraphale drained his glass and sat down next to Crowley. He put his hands in his lap and stared straight ahead. "I didn't expect it to feel like this. To know they no longer claim me as their own," he said. He couldn't help the spasm of pain that crossed his face. "It hurts," he said, quietly.

Aziraphale looked out the window at the sky, now nearly black. Crowley had lit a fire in their large brick fireplace, or perhaps had miracled one into being. It roared behind the grate, making wooshing and popping sounds. Barnabus watched it, but appeared unconcerned. The orange light made his fur glow and Aziraphale noticed patches of tan and brown on his ears, face and chest. He wasn't pure white after all. 

"I know." Crowley carefully set a hand on Aziraphale's back and didn't move it. The touch seemed to ground him and after a moment, he looked back at Crowley, stricken.

"Of course- I shouldn't have- Of course you understand, of all people-" 

Crowley shook his head. "Comparing miseries just makes both parties even more miserable, Angel," he said gently.

"I'm sorry, Crowley," Aziraphale said, almost whispering.

Crowley gathered him in his arms and they sat, watching the fire silently. The giant dog at their feet sighed and rolled onto its side, warming its belly. Crowley pressed his face into Aziraphale's shoulder and inhaled deeply. 

"I'll tell you this, though," he said. "They may not claim you, but I do." He continued looking at the fire in the hearth. When he spoke, his voice was careful and low and full of fondness. "Mr. A.Z. Fell, sole proprietor of A.Z. Fell & Company." 

Aziraphale shifted in his arms but didn't look at him. He breathed out slowly.

"Owner of the worst bookshop in the history of London booksellers, when ranked by sales."

At that Aziraphale turned to face him and sputtered. "Worst? Really, now," he said. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow, daring him to disagree. He didn't. "Mr. Fell, long-term member of the now-defunct but then-infamous Hundred Guineas Club in Portland Place."

Aziraphale's eyes grew wide. "You-"

"Oh? You think I didn't know about that just because I was sleeping? Mmmhmm," Crowley said, smirking. Aziraphale gave him a chastising look, one that had been mostly ineffective at actually chastising him for a good seven centuries. 

"The Amazing-" Crowley cleared his throat and struggled with the word _amazing_. "Mr. Fell- the worst magician in the whole of the British Isles, possibly all of Europe."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're failing miserably," Aziraphale said, trying and failing to hide a smile.

Crowley kissed the spot right behind his ear and whispered, "Brother Francis." Aziraphale shivered and Crowley kissed the same spot again for good measure. "Worst gardener I've ever met."

"I'll grant you that one," Aziraphale said. He was smiling now and not trying to hide it.

"Co-godfather of the antichrist." Crowley kissed his earlobe, then lightly bit down, teasing. 

"Mmm," Aziraphale said, his neck and face flushed.

Crowley kissed the line of his jaw. Gentle, barely there kisses. "Mr. A. Z. Fell," he whispered. "One-half owner on the deed of the cottage listed at 1 Angel St, Petworth GU28 0BG. And apparently," Crowley said, looking down at the large dog sleeping soundly on the rug at their feet. "Keeper of a large dog."

"I told you, his name is Barnabus."

"Mmmm." Crowley turned Aziraphale's face and kissed him gently. Their lips slid together, soft and unhurried. There would be thousands more kisses like this one, before thousands more fires in their fireplace. 

"Aziraphale," he said, kissing him again.

"Angel." 

Another kiss. 

"I claim you."

They kissed for some time, until the light of the fire had died down and neither cared enough to stoke it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Angel St, Petworth is a real address in the general area of the South Downs and at that address is ... wait for it ... seriously, I'm not kidding ... The Angel Inn.  
2- I've been reading a lot of Sandman lately, hence [Barnabus](https://sandman.fandom.com/wiki/Barnabas). Aziraphale's  
mystery dog companion comes to him when he is needed, like all the best dogs do. He looks rather like[this](https://www.allthingsdogs.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/White-Husky-Dog.jpg).  
3- Okay I'm sorry, now I've written both sad Crowley and sad Aziraphale. Whyyyyy do I do this to myself????


	7. Enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tells a bedtime story. It goes just about as well as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE:** I expanded on this and posted it as its own fic, located [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527008). This version is a draft, of sorts.
> 
> This is quite silly and mostly dialogue. Please imagine David Tennant's voice as Crowley, since it really only fits his voice and not the book or radio Crowleys.

Crowley has one leg and one arm flung across Aziraphale. His nose is buried in the angel's chest. His eyes are closed but he's not asleep. Aziraphale strokes his hair lightly with one hand, and props up a large book with the other. If his arms were human arms, they'd have been numb long ago. Crowley stirs. He rubs his cheek against Aziraphale's striped nightshirt. He wouldn't admit to having drooled a little, but Aziraphale notices it and smiles down at him.

"Bet I could tell you a bedtime story better than whatever that is," Crowley says, sleepy.

"Oh, really now?" Aziraphale doesn't move his book. "Better than Aesop's Fables?"

Crowley snorts. "Way better." He puts his chin on Aziraphale's chest and looks up at him with mischief in his yellow eyes. He adds a waggle of his eyebrows for dramatic effect.

Aziraphale sets the book down on his nightstand and brings the other arm around Crowley's shoulder. He knows Crowley can't resist a challenge, and he also knows he can't resist watching Crowley try to cheat at said challenge. "Challenge accepted," he says. "Tell me a better bedtime story than Aesop's Fables."

Crowley grins the grin of a man with a huge imagination, reckless confidence, and no common sense. His is the clueless face of a demon about to tell a story to the only being in existence to have proof-read Chaucer, gossiped with Austen, flirted with Byron, and on one regrettable occasion, lost a drinking contest with Hemingway. He flips over on the bed and settles on a multitude of pillows Aziraphale had chosen specifically to match their dressing gowns. One a deep scarlet red, one white with a small blue pattern. He takes Aziraphale's hand and begins.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away..."

"Crowley! Even _I_ know that one!"

"You do, eh? Well it's good. Nothing says great storytellers can't take from other great storytellers."

"And you are counting yourself among the great storytellers? Such confidence."

"Hey, you wanted the best bedtime story, and I aim to satisfy. So shush."

Aziraphale purses his lips, but lets Crowley continue.

"Fine. Not so long ago, in a village approximately 75 kilometers from London, an enchanted baby is born. Well, delivered, a baby is delivered."

"Crowley..."

"Shush! It's a good story. Happy ending, you'll love it. This baby was delivered by our handsome, daring, dashing hero. The hero-est of all heroes. And sexy too. He received the baby from an evil, uh, stork and his accomplice, a disgusting salamander. Storks can be right devils, you know."

"Mmmhmmm."

"So this hero, this devilishly attractive hero. He has perfectly styled red hair and uh ..."

"Serpentine hips?" Aziraphale suggests with an innocent smile.

Crowley stares at him for a moment, then shrugs. "I'll take it. Our hero with the serpentine hips. He rode, with the baby, on his faithful steed. His steed was the stuff of legends, this steed, the best and most powerful in the land. He named her Bentley 3.5 Litre and she was the finest, uh ... horse, uh ... born, in 1933 to the stable of Royce."

"Crowley."

"Okay, okay. Our hero rode his faithful steed, a perfectly normal palfrey which was nicknamed Bentley. Happy?" 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Crowley couldn't see with his head lying on the angel's chest, but after 6,000 years he could tell when Aziraphale rolled his eyes whether he could see him or not. He continues. 

"He took the baby to a castle, where it's to be sent to live with its parents, but there's a mixup. The incompetent fairies at the castle give the enchanted baby to the wrong parents. Our hero doesn't find this out until later, but it's important to establish that it was not the hero's fault."

"Mmmm," Aziraphale murmurs, not exactly in agreement.

"After that, our hero goes to see the Prince."

"The Prince?"

"Yeah, the Prince. Very beautiful, this prince. He's from, uh, the kingdom next door to our hero."

"The Prince is from the kingdom next door?" Aziraphale says, skeptical.

"Yep, very beautiful, very stubborn prince. He has fair hair - impossibly fluffy. And he lives in a castle filled with books. Smart, very big brain, the Prince."

"He sounds very nice, this prince."

"Well, whenever anyone tries to borrow something from his castle, he turns into a dragon to scare them away. And he interrupts people when they're telling stories."

"Go on, then."

Crowley clears his throat. "So the Prince and our hero decide to make a plan. They'll find the baby and they'll use their special skills to counteract the baby's enchantment. Enchantment-ness. They'll counteract the thing that makes the baby bad, is what I'm saying."

"Their special skills?"

"Yeah, don't think too hard about that part. In fact, maybe let's skip ahead."

Aziraphale shifts, moving down the bed so he can face Crowley. "That's not fair, Crowley. Why skip ahead?"

"Because the next part is boring," Crowley says. He looks away. "It's the second-happiest part of the story. Nothing happens, and our hero doesn't have to be heroic or daring or courageous. He's just ... him. And the Prince is the Prince, but with terrible teeth. And they see each other all the time and they're happy, even though their plan doesn't work." 

Despite himself, Aziraphale smiles. "Alright, skip ahead, then," he says.

Crowley flips back over dramatically and gestures at the ceiling. "Then! The baby grows up into a not-baby. Adolescent. But he's an _enchanted_ adolescent, which is even more obnoxious than a normal adolescent. The evil swan and disgusting salamander's forces have word that the enchanted adolescent will bring about the end of the kingdom. Our hero is rightfully concerned."

"Rightfully, indeed," Azirapahale says, playing along.

"But! As it turns out, our ever-intelligent hero and his faithful sidekick the Prince made a mistake!"

"Faithful sidekick?" Aziraphale complains. "Whatever happened to very beautiful, very intelligent Prince who turns into a dragon?"

Crowley makes apologetic noises that aren't exactly words, and acquiesces when Aziraphale smacks him lightly on the chest. "Okay, okay. Our hero and his _oh-so-charming_ Prince revisit the castle to investigate but they don't find the fairies that had lived there. On their way back, a sorceress runs into them with her ..." Crowley pauses, thinking. He waves the hand not holding Aziraphale's in the air vaguely. "Her magical chariot."

"If it was a magical chariot why did it allow the hero to hit it with his-"

"I said it was a _magic_ chariot, not a _smart _chariot. Anyway, the sorceress leaves behind a book with clues about this special baby and the Prince finds it. But the Prince, see, he doesn't trust our hero."

"Crowley-"

"The Prince goes back to his castle and doesn't tell our hero about the clues. Even though our hero has been nothing but honest with the Prince for 6,000 years."

"Crowley, I-"

"Hey, s'my story, I get to tell it." Aziraphale's arms tighten around him but he stops protesting. Crowley puts his other hand on top of Aziraphale's and laces their fingers. "The Prince and our hero get into an argument. The hero has a moment of weakness."

"Oh dear."

"I know, but it happens to all heroes, even the bravest ones. Our hero, he wanted to run away with the Prince because he didn't know what else to do. He couldn't stop the-"

"Enchanted adolescent-"

"Right- enchanted adolescent. He couldn't stop it and even if he couldn't live in the kingdom anymore, he thought maybe it'd be okay if he was with the Prince. But the Prince wouldn't go. He wouldn't leave his castle."

"Crowley..."

"Almost done, I promise. The Prince was right about one thing."

"Oh?"

"He was right that the hero shouldn't have run away. That the hero should stay and fight for the kingdom, even if it meant he died."

"Crowley, that's not-"

"No interrupting! This is where the action starts. Our hero has to valiantly defend himself from attacks from the evil stork and the disgusting salamander. He's able to slay the salamander, but only manages to delay the stork. He races to the castle to find the Prince, but the Prince's castle is on fire!" Crowley makes a whooshing sound, which is supposed to indicate fire but sounds more like a flushing toilet. Aziraphale looks concerned. "Our brave hero rushes inside the castle, desperate to save the Prince. But he can't find him anywhere. The Prince is gone."

"But the bookshop- the castle, I mean- you went inside?"

Crowley nods, eyebrows up. "I thought you knew that. I got the book."

Aziraphale's forehead creases with retroactive worry. "I suppose, but- I didn't know you went in for me. I thought you just found the book ..."

"I went in for you, angel. And you're killing my bedtime story," Crowley says. "All has been lost for our hero. He doesn't know how to stop the enchanted baby-"

"Adolescent."

"Right, adolescent. His best friend is dead. All hope is lost." Aziraphale squirms and Crowley strokes his hand. "But it's actually not! The Prince is alive!"

"Thank Heavens."

"Thank _somebody_, anyway. The Prince tells our hero to get to the American airbase- uh, the ..." Crowley pauses, stumped. Aziraphale looks up a the ceiling, thinking.

"The garrison of Lord America?"

Crowley shrugs. "Right. The garrison of Lord America. Our hero _literally_ drives through fire to make it there in time to meet the Prince and save the kingdom."

"If I recall, the hero and the Prince didn't actually save the kingdom, the enchanted adolescent did."

Crowley makes a disagreeing noise. "Ehhhhh, not really? But the hero helped. And the Prince helped by cajoling the hero into helping."

Aziraphale makes a face. "Cajoling? Really?"

Crowley makes a face right back. "_Come up with something or I'll never talk to you again_. I'd call that cajoling. Or emotional blackmail."

"Nonsense. Helpful encouragement."

Crowley rolls his eyes harder than strictly healthy for his human body. "Whatever you call it. the Prince and the hero assist in saving the world. The end."

"The end?"

"Yeah, the end. Isn't it usually the end when the world is saved by the devastatingly handsome and brilliant hero with _helpful encouragement_ from his Prince?"

"On the contrary, I think the hero's story is only just beginning."

"Oh?"

"Mmm. And besides, the Prince has some things to tell the hero."

"Such as?"

"Things that aren't suitable until after the lights are out."

Crowley snaps his fingers and suddenly the room is pitch black. In between increasingly urgent kisses, he says, mostly to himself, "Happily ever after."


	8. Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema finds a number of items in Crowley's car. Newt makes an insightful remark.

"Why is there so much junk in your car?" Anathema asked.

"What you mean, junk?" Crowley shot back.

"Junk!" She pulled out a series of random objects and set them on the seat between her and Newt. "A scarf, an umbrella, a hat, a pair of gloves, a bookmark, a pocket square, a box of cookies," she said, inspecting each item as she tossed it on the seat.

"Biscuit tin," Newt murmured. Both the angel and the demon in the front seat nodded at his correction. Americans.

"I didn't expect your car to be full of junk, that's all," Anathema said, ignoring him. "It's fine, just unexpected. I thought it'd be neat- though I suppose that's a stereotype..."

"Since when are _demons _stereotypically neat?" Crowley replied nastily, despite the fact that he was generally very neat. He narrowly avoided hitting a tourist group that took slightly too long to cross the road. The other three inhabitants of the car held their breath as the Bentley zoomed past, even though one of them didn't strictly need to breathe.

"That's not the stereotype I was referring- never mind," she said, blushing furiously. 

Aziraphale glanced back at the items on the seat. "Oh! There's my sleeve garter. I've been wondering where it got off to."

"I haven't seen anyone actually wear one of these," Newt said. "Just in paintings and stuff."

"That's because they went out of style in the 1920s," Crowley grumbled.

"Why are they all plaid?" Anathema asked. Crowley took a hard left turn, and were the Bentley subject to the usual laws of human physics, three wheels would've certainly left the ground. Being the Bentley, the curve bent to the car rather than the other way around. Even Crowley swerved a little at that, and the other passengers were thoroughly swept to their right. Crowley's hand reached out to brace Aziraphale's and he held onto it for slightly longer than necessary. The myriad of objects Anathema had gathered slid towards Newt, who struggled to gather them in his arms. He ended up covered in an assortment of gentleman's accessories from centuries past.

Shaking his head, Crowley made a serious of noises that were nowhere near words in any human language. They were the sounds of exasperation and disdain leaving Crowley's body and bypassing his brain. When he did finally form something resembling a word, it was simply, again, "Americans."

Aziraphale smiled and said kindly, "They're _tartan_, my dear. It's a common mistake."

"Oh," Anathema replied. "Sorry."

"Oh it must be like how you're always leaving hair bands and pins and makeup and such in my flat," Newt said. "I find girl stuff everywhere now that we're boyfriend and girlfriend. And half the time don't have the foggiest idea what it is. Your stuff always smells nicer than mine, somehow, though. It's nice and I keep them around because it reminds me of you, even when you're not there."

The car, currently speeding down a country lane at nearly three times the posted speed limit, was completely silent. Newt looked out the window at the scenery, which he couldn't actually see since it was flying by so quickly. It made him vaguely nauseous, so he turned back to the angel, demon, and witch. They were all studiously avoiding looking at each other. Crowley's eyes were glued to the road, and Aziraphale brushed invisible lint off his shoulder.

Anathema cleared her throat. "Thank you, again, ummm, for giving us a ride."

Newt nodded enthusiastically. "Dick Turpin will be up and running again soon, I'm sure."

Aziraphale murmured something that wasn't quite an agreement on the status of Newt's vehicle. "Of course, dears. We couldn't possibly let you take a- what did you call it? 'Lift' but with a purposeful misspelling?" He shuddered at the thought of a purposeful misspelling.

"We could've, actually," Crowley said. "Uber was definitely one of mine."

"We appreciate it," Anathema said, smoothly. She met Crowley's eyes in the rearview mirror and smirked. "Both of us, Newt and myself, together as a couple, appreciate the gesture."

Crowley set his foot even further down on the accelerator and the Bentley set a personal speed record.


	9. Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is responsible for cable television and one of the greatest scandals in baseball history.

"How many channels does your television set receive, Crowley? I've been pressing this button for ages." Aziraphale said, as he continued to press the channel up button furiously. He briefly paused on a cooking show, then frowned and moved on when it became apparent by all the yelling that the show was American. He'd rotated Crowley's gilded chair to face the television and was sitting in it stiffly.

"All of them," Crowley said from the kitchen.

"All of them?"

"Yeah, all," Crowley said, his voice echoing through the airy flat. "I was responsible for cable in the first place, so I damn well better get all the channels on earth. I told you that in the eighties but you didn't think it would last. Proved you wrong, as usual."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and kept flipping. He'd deny having done so, as rolling one's eyes didn't seem like very angelic behavior. He chuckled as he passed a channel showing a plump panda tumbling down a hill.

"Proved Ted wrong, too, tho it made us both a tidy sum and him a famous man," Crowley said, bringing a bottle of whisky and two glasses into the room with him. "Oh, you messed up my chair." 

Aziraphale ignored him and kept flipping channels. He flipped past Jeopardy, an infomercial selling a squeegee, a police procedural, Jeopardy, an infomercial selling a vaccuum-sealing device, a medical procedural, Jeopardy, and three nature documentaries each with increasingly desperate calls to action to save the coral reefs. Crowley poured two stiff drinks and took a sip of his. Aziraphale reached a block of sports channels.

"Why are there so many channels with American baseball?" he asked.

"Mmmmmm," Crowley didn't answer so much as ooze nonchalance. "I ever tell you I nearly ruined the sport?" He held his glass to his chin, remembering and pointedly not answering Aziraphale's question. Crowley was absolutely to blame for the proliferation of TV sports channels, since he was responsible for the fact that there were thousands of channels of television on earth and simultaneously never anything worth watching.

"Baseball? Why?" Aziraphale asked, turning away from the screen.

"Why do I do anything, angel?"

"I often ask myself that, Crowley," Aziraphale said, sighing dramatically.

Now it was Crowley's turn to roll his eyes. "Well, what better was there to do in America in 1919? They were so touchy about liquor in those days. Couldn't have a good drink without stirring things up. Fashion was nice, though."

Aziraphale had to agree, since his own suit had been fitted in 1931 and worn since. He didn't have to agree out loud so that Crowley knew he agreed, however. "So you are telling me _you_ were responsible for the White Sox losing the 1919 World Series? That was you?"

Crowley smiled mischievously and downed his glass.

"Crowley."

"Mmmm?" Crowley poured himself another drink.

"As I recall, the punishment inflicted on those poor players was quite harsh," Aziraphale said. "And the mobster's despicable behavior coming to light meant that the practice of rigging the game of baseball was largely eradicated in the years following the scandal?"

Crowley frowned, considering.

"So in a way, my dear," Aziraphale said sweetly, "your bit of fun with America's pastime was ultimately in service of the greater good." 

Crowley's frown turned into a scowl.

"Perhaps one might say it was a swing and a miss," Aziraphale said, trying (and failing) not to sound smug. He changed the channel.


	10. Ornament

Each year, the servants gifted Mr. and Mrs. Dowling with a small trinket of some kind of another. In return, they received a holiday bonus that depended greatly on the state of American budget negotiations. The government shutdown of 2013 meant a dozen English domestic workers went home grumbling and woke up the next morning to find they'd won sweepstakes they couldn't recall entering. Nanny Ashtoreth presented Warlock with a small black and red box with a giant red bow on top. He was at the age where everything ended up in his mouth, however, so the gift was swiftly taken way and when it found itself in Mrs. Dowling's hands the drool was miraculously gone.

"Oh how beautiful!" Mrs. Dowling exclaimed, with a puzzled expression. "It's very ... intricate." She held the large glass ornament in two fingers as if it were hot to the touch. She set it back in the box gingerly and looked expectantly at the nanny.

"Aren't you going to hang it on the tree?" Nanny asked, sweetly. Her eyes were covered by her ever-present glasses, which somehow glinted in Mrs. Dowling's eyes. 

"Of course," she stammered. 

The ornament was a deep red color, with thin gold lines running around it that shimmered in the light. The golden strands formed a complex pattern that wound around the ornament, culminating in a shape at the top that appeared to be a serpent's head. Its eyes were jet black and contrasted with the golden outline of its body. In the twinkling light of the tree, the serpent appeared to writhe sinuously as the glass ball was turned.

Nanny Ashtoreth smiled with bared teeth as Mrs. Dowling placed the ornament on the tree carefully. It stood out, completely unique on the otherwise blandly decorated tree.

"Now I've got somehin- for ye, Miss!" Brother Francis said, stomping his way to Mrs. Dowling and carefully avoiding little Warlock, who was happily chewing on a gift box. He handed Mrs. Dowling a white box with a delicate blue ribbon and appeared to smirk at Nanny Ashtoreth, whose face had frozen in an expression that was both arch and a bit embarrassed.

"Why thank you, Brother Francis. That's much appreciated," Mrs. Dowling cooed. She opened the box and drew out a stunning ornament, the same size as the one presented by Nanny Ashtoreth. "Well, in America we say 'great minds think alike'!"

Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis studiously avoided looking at one another as Mrs. Dowling brought out the bauble. It was a gold globe with a glittery shine that reflected the light in all directions. Etched onto the gold surface was a pair of wings with incredibly detailed feathers. The wings spread out and circled round the ornament, as if folding it into an embrace. 

"These are both so beautiful!" Mrs. Dowling placed the golden ornament next to the red one on the tree, where they made a perfectly mismatched pair. "Thank you both ever so much," she said, and seemed to actually mean it.

Nanny Ashtoreth cleared her throat. The nanny and the gardener moved aside to let the others present their gifts to their employer. She spared a sideways glance at Brother Francis, who clasped his hands in front of his body and beamed happily at the scene. "Happy Christmas, angel."

"Happy Christmas, my dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The timeline doesn't actually work out for the US govt shutdown in 2013 to coincide with Warlock as an infant, but please just go with it.)


	11. Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I keep the things I treasure close at hand.”

Aziraphale paused as they reached the door to the bookshop.

“Do you recall-?”

Crowley had stopped behind him, his hand lightly holding the angel’s elbow. He tilted his head.

“You brought me flowers, Crowley,” he said. His hand remained on the doorknob but he turned and looked at Crowley, smiling a conspiratorial smile. “When I first opened.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and leaned in close, crowding them together on the step. “I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. His body was all angles and all the angles pointed towards the angel standing in front of the doorway.

Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders and looked up at him fondly. He smiled a smile that had taunted Crowley into doing so many deeds for him for so many years neither could have kept track. “Sentimental serpent,” he said with that same smile in his voice.

“Me?” Crowley sputtered, half forming several words before spitting out, “I’m not the one who keeps an entire store full of collectibles I won’t let anyone touch!”

Aziraphale ran his free hand down the front of Crowley’s jacket lapels, feeling the fabric lightly. His eyes flicked down for a moment, taking in the leaning form of the lean demon. He said, “I keep the things I treasure close at hand.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley breathed the words. He whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, “How close?”

Aziraphale shivered. “Very. Should we…”

“If you step inside that door, I’ll-”

“You’ll what? Shove me against the wall and actually ravish me instead of teasing?”

“I-”

“Tease-”

“You-”

Aziraphale shut him up with a firm kiss and opened the door.


	12. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What had they done, in the dark?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: This chapter only rated M**
> 
> Please be aware, this chapter contains mature (sexual) imagery. It's brief, but nonetheless it is there. This warning only applies to this chapter, not the work as a whole.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and regretted it immediately. The pain in his head was dull but pervasive. His mouth full of cotton. The smell of wine gone sour on his breath. Around him, the room was dark and still. The silence pressed down on him from all sides, heavy. He felt silk sheets beneath bare skin and a body next to his. 

What had they done? He knew. Flashes of it came to him and he screwed his eyes shut. Crowley, in his mouth. Crowley, with one arm flung wide and the other holding his head with such reverence. Chanting _don't stop, please angel, please_. Holding himself above Crowley on shaking arms. Kissing him furiously, tongue desperately saying all the things he couldn't. Coming on his stomach with a gasp and the demon's name on his lips.

What had they done, in the dark?

"I can hear you worrying, angel." His voice was low, thick with the same leftover residue that coated Aziraphale's throat. It was just that, nothing more. Wine and the darkness of the not-quite-morning. If it'd been light, there'd be nowhere to hide it. The feeling behind the voice. In the dark, it could be wine and nothing more. Except for all the ways it couldn't.

He turned to face Crowley, whose eyes were still closed. He held his arm over his face and Aziraphale could see his bare chest rise and fall with each breath. His pale skin a faint glow under blood red sheets.

"If you say the words _sorry_, _mistake_, or _shouldn't_, I will kick you out."

He said nothing.

Crowley turned. His eyes opened and Aziraphale saw the entire universe. He couldn't hide anything in those golden eyes. He never could.

Aziraphale looked away, back towards the dark.


	13. Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (South Downs)
> 
> Crowley finds an item of clothing, long since tucked away.

"Angel, do you know where my-" Crowley yelled as he went up the stairs. The fourth and fifth stair creaked under his feet and he avoided the rough spot on the top landing where the finish on the wood had worn thin. 

A crackly symphony gently played on the gramophone downstairs. Aziraphale hummed along, not entirely on tune. Crowley heard the metallic clink of pots and pans being shuffled about and smelled the aroma of something delicious wafting up from the kitchen.

"Never mind," he called out, though he hadn't been heard in the first place.

He waved vaguely at the bedside lamp and it obliged, filling the room with a soft warm light. On one bedside table sat a stack of magazines on subjects ranging from ornithology to antique automobiles to amateur astronomy. On the other, a pile of books so high the stack curved one way, curved the other way and straightened out by the tome at the top. The bed was unmade, cream and red patterned sheets rumpled and creased. His lips twitched upwards.

He opened the wardrobe and pursed his lips. Light colored shirts and jackets mingled with dark red silks and black blouses. There was no discernible pattern to them and he casually rifled through the mismatched collection. He pulled out a cream-colored coat from the very back. It was soft, worn with age and love. He set it on the rack, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The coat smelled like memories. Books and wine and a polluted London no one would recognize now. When he opened his eyes, he saw the stains under the surface of the fabric. A mosaic of spills and splotches miracled away but not forgotten.

A wine stain on the cuff. A deep, rich Bordeaux, shared and spilled in the back of the bookshop in 1958. Whisked away before its wearer had a chance to notice. Muddy water splashes on the coattails, from all the times he'd walked carriage-lined streets without Crowley on his outside. A bright splotch of blue paint on the right shoulder. Crowley felt the blue spot fondly, went back there for a moment. To a manor house, and a feeling of love.

"What are you doing up here?" Aziraphale had come up the stairs silently behind him, avoiding the creaky stairs. He put his arm around Crowley's waist. The gesture was as casual and unconscious as breathing, but Crowley could've lived without the breath.

"I was looking for-"

"Oh, is that my old coat? My, will you look at that," Aziraphale said. He gave the garment a once-over and tutted. "Pity it got so worn."

"I don't think these were meant to outlast the empire, angel."

"Well. Everyone changes eventually," he said. Crowley, who had changed the part in his hair that morning, raised an eyebrow in response. Aziraphale took the suit by the hanger. He smoothed his hand over the spot on the right shoulder, lingering on the ghost of blue paint. He gingerly returned the coat to the wardrobe and looked back at Crowley. The sides of his eyes were lined with centuries of smiles. "Some, perhaps, a bit more slowly than others."

He closed the wardrobe door. "Come now, dear, dinner is ready. Going by smell alone, I believe this may be my finest creation, yet." He turned, not waiting for an answer. Crowley followed him downstairs, relishing the familiar creak on the fourth and fifth stair.

**Author's Note:**

> [doomed-spectacles](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles) on Tumblr


End file.
